They put me on drugs so I don’t kill myself

Maybe that’s part of the problem

I question if I’m schizophrenic

I’m taking a survey please answer in an email

I hate the phone I have enough voices to listen to


I wonder why I am on drugs

I get them from the pharmacist

I’m a high class addict

With Walgreens in my back pocket

You get your meth from a trailer

Perhaps a bit of shake and bake

Tin foil and baking salt

Everyone should know the color of heroin

If you plan on being alive

Its fucking brown


Off tangent as my mind

I was like this before they drugged me

Stole my dad’s rifle

Rented a fleabag motel room

Kept my things above ground in case of roaches

I have no technical ability in my brilliance

I didn’t have a magazine

And my google supported the notion

This was a stupidly executed plan

I dipped out the hotel room

I can’t even tell you I was high

Because it seems life has always been this way

Just now a little bit brighter

Since I acquired a pharmacist


I wonder if I will make it

I have to go off these drugs

They are setting me up for failure

I just know it anyways

As I go between laughing and crying

And crying and laughing

You have to understand

This is probably my core over spilling

The lasting residual effects of lack of empathic care

Amplified by the chemists in the labs

Making mice from the millions they control

With their goddam pharmaceuticals

They even give you free samples to get you started

If you do the research it’s thirty three dollars a day

You’re better off being a junkie

Then getting hooked on Walgreens



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